


Love Me 'Til My Heart Starts

by brickroad16



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Female Relationships, golf au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brickroad16/pseuds/brickroad16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A junior at Polis University, Lexa is the captain of the women's golf team with an eye on making it to the LPGA after graduation. Then Clarke Griffin, daughter of PGA champ Jake Griffin, comes along. Is Clarke after the captaincy, or is she after the captain's heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me 'Til My Heart Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Matt Nathanson's "Heart Starts"
> 
> I play golf, but not competitively. I did my best with the details.

Lexa rolls her shoulders and lets a tiny groan escape her lips. Today’s round had been rough—two bogeys, one double bogey, and only two birdies. No eagles at all. Summer had been a dream. Her swing never felt better, and she coasted her way to three amateur wins. But her focus has been up and down ever since the school year started. She can blame it on the weather, exceptionally hot for a mid-Atlantic September. She can blame it on that 19th-century literature paper due next week. But really, her distraction has one cause and one cause alone.

Clarke Griffin.

She’s a freshman, and Lexa knows very little about her beyond that she’s got a powerful drive and an excellent short game. Phenomenal, honestly. And she came from Ark Academy, a ritzy prep school over in D.C. Lexa’s never met an alum of AA she’s liked for the simple reason that they’re all pretentious asses.

But Clarke, with her expensive golfing outfits and top of the line clubs and her golf royalty father, is the first to challenge her captaincy. The position of captain of Polis University’s renowned girls’ golf team is her ticket to the LPGA. She can’t afford to have it ripped away, especially not by an upstart freshman.

Lexa sits on a locker room bench to don socks and sneakers. The blonde, her back to Lexa, clasps her bra and pulls on a t-shirt, but not before Lexa gets a glimpse of tan skin and toned muscles.

Shit. Of course the rival eyeing her captaincy is attractive.

Clarke hoists her book bag onto her shoulder and turns to leave. Lexa brings her leg up to tie her sneaker. Heat rises to her cheeks. Even if Clarke didn’t catch the stare, she’ll certainly notice the blush.

Lexa’s fingers fumble with her laces. She forces her mind back to the round, back to that double bogey on twelve. Then Clarke sits next to her. Lexa tenses but doesn’t lift her head.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, no note of apology in her hardened voice. It’s lower and huskier than Lexa would have expected, but it’s gorgeous, a voice she can follow like a north star. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Yes, she has, actually. She exists—with her sky-blue eyes and her full breasts and her soft lips and—

 _No. Stop it_.

Lexa ties her other shoe. “Why would you think that, Clarke?”

“So, you _do_ know my name? I was beginning to wonder since you’re team captain and yet never speak to me.”

Lexa knows her name. Even after only a few weeks, she knows the way it catches in her throat, likes the way it seems natural when it rolls off her tongue. She keeps her voice calm. “What do you want me to speak to you about?”

“Anything! Treat me like your damn teammate. Talk to me about everything you talk to everyone else about. Give me tips. Give me homework assignments. Tell me with your cool standoffishness that I kicked ass on eight.”

“You know that already. You know exactly how good you are. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Clarke pulls back—just a bit, just enough to broadcast her confusion.

Anya, their coach, steps out of her office. “Griffin. Woods. Is there a problem?”

“No, Coach,” Lexa and Clarke answer together.

“Good.” Anya narrows her eyes, arms crossed over her chest, like she’s deciding something. Then she says, “Just between you and me, _American Sport Magazine_ wants an interview with the team. They’re coming in a few weeks. It’ll be good exposure, might up the alumni donations, but they can’t see any dissention in the locker room. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach,” says Clarke.

At the same time, Lexa says, “Yes, Coach.”

Anya nods. “Now go study or get dinner or something. Just get out of here.”

Clarke strides across the room, but she stops at the locker-room door to throw a glance over her shoulder. Once she goes, Lexa takes a minute to pack her book bag. And to put some distance between them. The team lives in two houses on the edge of campus. ‘Togetherness building teamwork’ and all that. She has no intention of following Clarke back to the houses in awkward silence.

Two more years. Two more years, and she’ll have everything she worked so hard for all her life. No one—no matter how pretty—is going to ruin that.

* * *

There’s something about dawn runs—the sunrise, the burst of color through the clouds, the illusion of being the only person awake on the entire earth—that calms Lexa. The routine helps, too—five miles six days a week. Routine organizes her life, and that in turn organizes her mind. Golf is a mental game, all in her head, so her head needs to be clear.

She lets the beat of her music take over, lets her world narrow to the rise and fall of her chest, to the rhythmic slap of sneakers against concrete, and for a while, everything is perfect.

She finishes her first loop around campus. Her house comes into view as she rounds the corner. Four more laps to go. Then a quick breakfast followed by a practice front nine and, finally, class.

Routine. It’s good.

That’s when Clarke jogs across the street toward her.

Shit. If Lexa could spare the breath, she’d sigh. This is the last thing she needs right now. If she’s going to get to the top of her game, she can’t allow herself to be distracted, and Clarke is a distraction—in many ways.

Clarke falls into step with her. Lexa burns to question the blonde, to demand what she wants. Pride always has been Lexa’s biggest weakness.

As they pass the football stadium, Clarke says, “Of course you’d be one of those people who gets up at the ass-crack of dawn.”

And that’s it. That’s the only thing either of them says the entirety of their four-mile run.

Clarke is baffling, Lexa decides. She’d been sure their confrontation in the locker room last week had infuriated the freshman. Either that assumption is wrong or Clarke’s trying to drive her mad in a strange yet methodical way.

No matter. Golf is a mental game, and Lexa’s honed her mind over a lifetime of practicing. She’ll beat this distraction.

When they circle back toward the residential quad, Clarke peels off, slows, and heads toward her house without a word. The team may share the two houses, but thankfully, they’re separated between upperclassmen and lowerclassmen.

Lexa slows to a walk. Odd.

Even odder is that Clarke seems determined to make this a regular thing. She shows up every morning without fail. They don’t speak, and after five laps, Clarke always heads off without so much as a goodbye.

Until one Saturday.

One Saturday, Clarke invites Lexa to the driving range. And Lexa, too stunned to think it through, agrees.

There, too, they spend the first ten minutes in silence, with only the _thwack_ of titanium against balata. Somehow, after three weeks of running together, the quiet isn’t uncomfortable.

Lexa blasts a drive, but it slices. She curses beneath her breath. At the station in front of her, Clarke turns around, leans on her driver, and watches. Lexa clears her throat as she retakes her stance. She grips the club and takes a deep breath. She swings. Another slice.

“Keep your hips level,” Clarke says.

“What?” She’s been playing since she was seven. Her stance is . . . Actually, her stance has suffered in the past two months. She can’t relax. Overthinking is a killer. At this rate, she’s never going to hold onto her captaincy.

Clarke sets down her club and saunters over. “Here.” From behind, she grips Lexa’s hip and lowers the right one. “It’s subtle, but you’re putting too much weight on your front foot. You have to be even. Try again.”

Lexa bends her knees. She inhales and exhales, but it’s not right. She can’t remember at one point in her breathing pattern she usually swings. So when she hits the ball this time, it’s not even worth watching.

“Don’t think about your breathing. Focus on the ball.”

Lexa swings before she can think about anything. This time, the ball flies straight and true. When she looks back at Clarke, she’s smiling. “Thanks.”

Clarke nods and returns to her station.

Lexa readjusts her glove. “Why are you helping me, anyway?”

Clarke crushes a drive before turning around. “Because I need you.”

Lexa licks her lips. That’s not something she ever expected to hear from her rival.

“You’re our captain,” Clarke continues. “If you fail, we all fail.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been . . . inconsistent lately. I have no intention of letting the team down.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not beating you up about it.” Clarke smiles. “I think you do that enough yourself.”

They don’t say anything else for a while, but Lexa’s drives are straighter and her muscles feel looser. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s back home, practicing with Lincoln and Gustus and Indra, without any pressure.

After a little while, Clarke says, “My mom wanted me to follow in her footsteps, become a surgeon. And I wanted to for a little while. But then my dad . . .”

Jake Griffin died in an accident that had shocked and saddened the golf world. Lexa doesn’t know what to say.

“I know a lot of people think I get special treatment because of who he was. If that were true, I’d have gone pro already.” Clarke pauses. “I do it to honor him. And because I love the game.”

Golf is the only thing Lexa’s ever had. She’s worked hard for it for two-thirds of her life. Then she came back to school to find a rich kid and the daughter of one of the best pros to ever play had come to outshine her. Lexa recognizes Clarke’s offering for what it is—a way to show her that even with their differences, they share something after all.

“I was in the foster system until I was eight,” Lexa says. “Then my foster parents adopted me and taught me how to golf. It was my lens to see the world and my coping mechanism. It helped me deal with my anger, helped me envision a future. I don’t know who I am without it.”

Clarke smiles. “Good thing you’re good enough to go pro, then. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

Lexa nods.

“Then we’ll get you there.”

* * *

On Monday after her elective literature class, Lexa walks into the cafeteria for a quick lunch before Latin. Her brain’s been buzzing since Saturday—with Clarke’s name, with Clarke’s hands on her hips, with the curve of Clarke’s lips. She hates it, and yet it feels . . . comfortable. Maybe if things were different. If they weren’t collegiate athletes who couldn’t afford distractions. If they were just normal kids instead of rivals.

But they’re not rivals. Are they? Lexa isn’t quite sure what she is to Clarke, what she _wants_ to be. Besides, that doesn’t even matter if Clarke doesn’t want to be anything to her.

She nearly lets out a frustrated growl in the middle of the cafeteria line, but she settles for gripping the tray abominably hard.

_Dumb. This is so dumb. You don’t mean anything to her. Just forget about her and concentrate on the game._

She goes through the salad bar line and picks up an apple, some strawberries, and a bottle of water, all the while forcing her mind back to her practice round from this morning. Since Saturday, her drives have been consistently straight. That’s one good thing. She could use a bit more practice on her short game before the tournament in a couple weeks. She’ll have to go between class and her evening workout.

“Lexa!”

She turns and stops in her tracks. Clarke waves to her from a table in the middle of the hall. She’s surrounded by her friends from Ark Academy, most of whom Lexa knows by sight only. They’re always at their home tournaments to cheer on Clarke, and a few even come to the away ones.

“What are you waiting for, Woods?” Clarke asks, a glimmer in her eye.

Lexa’s brain kicks back into gear, and she walks toward the table. Clarke pushes a kid with goggles on the top of his head out of the seat next to her, and he pulls up a chair at the other end of the table.

Clarke pats the chair. “Grab a seat, Commander.”

“Commander?” Lexa repeats as she slides into the chair. She sets her book bag on the floor by her feet.

Clarke leans toward her. “Fits you better than ‘Captain,’ don’t you think?”

Before Lexa can think of a response, Clarke introduces her friends—Octavia, with dark hair and bright eyes; her brother, Bellamy, with a mess of curls framing his face; Raven, who, despite her knee brace, pushes out of her seat to shake Lexa’s hand; Jasper, the one who wears goggles; Monty, whose eyes sparkle with mischief; and Wells, whose smile is kind and welcoming.

Okay, well, this is different. Not in a bad way, just in an unexpected way. She and Clarke often pass each other on campus, but this is the first time either has made any move to be friendly. Lexa lets the smile tugging at her lips have free reign. Maybe this is how things change—slowly, but surely. Maybe this is the start of something big. She has a brief flash of a possible future, one where she and Clarke co-captain the team and lead it to a national championship.

“We’ve seen you play,” Octavia says to her. “You’re really good.”

“Yeah, it’s something to see,” Bellamy says.

“Almost as good as our girl Clarke, here,” Raven adds.

“Guys, come on,” Clarke says, but the blush on her cheeks gives her away. She’s happy that her friends are proud of her. “It’s a team sport. The better we all play individually, the better the team does.”

Lexa spears a lettuce leaf. “It’s fine, Clarke. You _are_ amazingly talented, an undeniable asset to the team.”

“Just to the team?” Clarke asks quietly, only to Lexa, with a quirk of a smile.

Lexa’s face heats. Clarke is _not_ attracted to her. Absolutely not. The tabloids had reported that she was hanging around with Finn Collins, the son of a baseball legend, all summer. After the past few weeks, she’s no longer convinced the freshman is gunning for her captaincy, but they’re not exactly friends, either. Or is that what this is about? She’s so used to being on guard, so used to defending herself that she sometimes can’t fathom that there are people with no agenda whatsoever. Or with completely innocent agendas, like simply getting to know her better.

“So,” Octavia says over the silence, “Clarke tells us the team’s going to be interviewed for _American Sport_. That’s so cool.”

Lexa nods and finishes a strawberry before answering, “Yeah, we’re all very excited. I only hope we can stay focused for the tournament coming up.”

“It’s not for two weeks.” Clarke rolls her eyes. “That’s Lexa, everyone. Always a pragmatist.” But then she shoots Lexa a teasing glance, and Lexa relaxes.

“That’s probably good,” Raven says. “Clarke needs someone to keep her from getting a big head, and O and I are tired of it. Isn’t that right?”

Octavia nods enthusiastically. “Watch out, Lexa. This one’s a handful.”

Clarke elbows her, and Octavia laughs.

Lexa takes a long drag of water to distract herself. Octavia hadn’t meant anything by that. She just meant on the team. Because Lexa’s the captain, and that’s what captains do—take care of their players.

The conversation drifts to other things—Octavia’s most recent soccer game, Bellamy’s desire to visit the history museum downtown, Wells’s decision to rush a fraternity, Monty and Jasper’s epic moonshine. It’s nice, having normal conversations. Lexa’s always so focused on the game that she hardly allows herself time for fun, time for other people.

Clarke’s friends are very nice, actually, much nicer than she would have expected of Ark kids. But maybe that was Clarke’s point—that Lexa’s been just as prejudiced against her as she was against her friends. Hot shame wells up in her.

“Where are you headed?” Clarke asks.

“Advanced Latin.”

“That sounds . . . thrilling.”

Lexa doesn’t argue the point. “What about you?”

“Drawing and Painting. Just beginner, though.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Lexa says. “Maybe at the Ark, you did things differently, but here at Polis, we start at the bottom and work our way up.”

“Bottom? That doesn’t sound like Clarke,” Octavia says.

Clarke rounds on her. “Shut up!” She moves to shove her friend, but Octavia, laughing, hides behind Raven.

Lexa slips her backpack over her shoulders. She shuffles from foot to foot. Should she wait for Clarke? This whole lunch has been strange, but not uncomfortably so. Different can be okay. Different stretches your boundaries to make more room for the important things—important things like a dazzling smile, like skilled hands just as comfortable with a paintbrush as with a golf club, like blue eyes the color of the cloudless sky that blaze with passion of many kinds.

Right there in the middle of the cafeteria, thumbs looped in her backpack straps, it hits her.

Oh, shit.

Before she has time to process, Clarke bounces over to her, messenger bag around her shoulder.

“I have to go past Walden Hall to get to Phoenix,” she says. “Why don’t I walk you?”

“Are you sure?” Lexa asks.

Clarke smiles. “Come on.”

Maybe, just maybe, _friends_ is a good place to start.

* * *

After Friday’s evening practice and the _American Sport_ interviews, Lexa’s on the locker-room bench tying her sneakers again when Clarke sits beside her.

“Hey,” Clarke says.

Lexa forces a breath in and out of her lungs. She’s going to need to nip this stupid little crush in the bud before it destroys her concentration. “Hi.”

Not today, though. Maybe on Monday.

“How’d your interview go?”

Lexa shrugs. “Fine. I didn’t know he’d follow us on our round.”

“You were nice to him, weren’t you?

“What kind of question is that, Clarke?”

“No. Sorry. It’s just . . . you can be abrupt. That’s all.” Clarke smiles to soften the blow.

It’s not a lie. Lexa stands to grab her bag from her locker. “Yours?”

“Yeah, mine was good,” Clarke says. “Turns out he’d interviewed my dad a couple times . . .” Her voice trails off, and she gets quiet, looking down at the floor and tapping her fingers on the bench between her legs. Then she looks up. “Hey. Are you busy?”

Lexa closes her locker, lets her hand linger on the lock. She licks her lips. “When?”

“Now.”

Lexa turns. “Now?”

Clarke nods. “And you shouldn’t have put your clubs away.”

A few minutes later, Clarke is driving them across the course in a golf cart. It’s late evening, nearing sundown, the temperature cooling. It’s the best time to be out on the course, and Lexa can’t think of a better person to be out here with.

She grips the side handle of the cart. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“What, are you afraid I’m going to murder you so I can become captain?”

“Well . . .”

“Lexa!”

Lexa laughs even as Clarke smacks her in the shoulder.

Clarke pulls the cart up to the tenth tee and hops out. She grabs two drivers, hands one to Lexa, and takes out a box of balls. “We’re going to have some fun. And I brought this.” She takes a chilled bottle from a cooler in the cart.

“Champagne?” Lexa asks. “What are we celebrating?”

“I don’t know. The beginning of our friendship? What promises to be an amazing season with a talented team? Besides, golfing while smashed is an experience that I couldn’t let you go through life without having.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

Clarke lifts an incredulous eyebrow.

“Fine,” Lexa relents.

The sunset washes over them as they drive a few experimental shots. After some champagne, Lexa’s body feels loose and free. She’s used to control, to rigidity, but she’s just now learning that a little spontaneity can be just as beneficial. Clarke’s teaching her that.

Clarke’s teaching her a lot of things.

She lines up a shot, but she strikes the ball wrong, and it goes dribbling into the fairway. She curses.

“No, no, no,” Clarke says. “The point isn’t to be good.”

“Oh, no?” Lexa asks, half a smile on her lips. “What is the point, then?”

“You know, to let your anger out in a safe way. You just swing as hard as you can and smack that ball into oblivion.”

Lexa leans on her club to look at the other girl. “Who says I’m angry?”

“Your eyebrows. And your near inability to smile.” Clarke grins as if to challenge Lexa to refute the claim, and Lexa’s not one to back down from a challenge.

“I’m not angry,” she says. “I’m focused.”

Clarke settles into her stance at the tee. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

Lexa rolls her eyes and watches the shot. A rocket, it flies straight and far. It seems that even tipsy, Clarke retains her natural talent.

“ _Why_ ,” Clarke says, dragging out the word, “aren’t you driving?”

Because Lexa can’t help take in the sight. The sun’s gone down, and Clarke is bathed in the purplish glow of twilight before the stars start to come out. The longer Lexa looks, a realization forms in her chest and begins to sink.

 _Friends_ might not be good enough.

* * *

She’s going to be sporting a killer hangover at tomorrow’s morning practice, but from where she’s sprawled on the grass, Lexa can see the stars, and stars seem to make things matter a lot less. She once beat Lorelai Tsing, who had won more majors than anyone in the LPGA. She can handle a measly hangover.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Lexa says.

Clarke turns her head. “For what?”

She’s sorry for a lot of things. Where to start? “Not giving you a chance.”

Clarke prods Lexa’s shin with her foot. “You are now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah . . .” She breathes out a long sigh. “Golf’s just . . . It’s mine. It’s the only thing that’s belonged to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember I said I was a foster kid?”

“Yeah.”

“It took a while for them to find a good home for me. I was eight when they finally did. Indra and Gustus Woods.” Lexa’s eyes slip shut. It’s a good memory, that day—coming to a house with a great big bedroom of her own; meeting Lincoln, her brother; eating pizza on the back patio like a normal family. “I was an angry kid. Until they taught me to golf. When things went to shit at school, that was something I could hold on to. It was the only thing I had.” She opens her eyes again to take in the stars. “So, I guess when you came, with your expensive clubs and fancy clothes, I got jealous. I thought you’d take that away from me. It’s stupid, I know.”

Clarke slides her hand into Lexa’s and rubs her thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s not stupid. It’s not.” She hums. “I get it. Snotty little rich kid encroaches on your territory. It’s natural to get defensive.”

“I’m not def—”

“No?” Clarke props herself up on an elbow. “Says the girl who didn’t speak to me for weeks.”

“That’s—”

“Weeks, Lexa!”

Laughing, Lexa says, “All right. All right. I get it. I was a terrible captain.”

Clarke flops back down. Now that the champagne bottle is empty, the movement’s endearingly messy. “Not terrible. Narrow-minded perhaps. Prejudiced. Not open to new things. Standoffish. Cold. Aloof.”

“Okay, I get it,” Lexa snaps, turning her head to look up at the sky again. Her cheeks warm. It’s true she doesn’t give the best of first impressions, but she hates how people always assume that means she doesn’t care at all. Caring too much has hurt her in the past, though. A sliver of pain whispers its way through her, murmuring Costia’s name. She lets it settle in her bones, reminding her why she does this, why she has to keep a tight rein on her feelings until she’s sure—absolutely sure—that she won’t get hurt.

Clarke lets out a chuckle. It bristles at first, but the sound washes over Lexa like a balm that eases the hurt from her marrow. It’s been so long since she’s done something like this—taken a moment out of her schedule to breathe, sat outside in the moonlight with no agenda other than the lazy flow of conversation, let down her guard.

“I’m teasing,” Clarke says. “You don’t have to act so tough, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone you have a heart.”

Lexa shifts on the grass, ignoring Clarke’s stare. “It’s not an act. This is just how I am.” She wants to get to know Clarke. She does. But Clarke is nothing familiar, nothing easy, nothing safe. She pushes and prods and demands and has no regard for gentleness.

“Look,” Clarke says with a sigh, “I get not trusting anyone. I really do. It’s hard after the people you love have left you or broken that trust so carefully given. But you can’t go through life not trusting _anyone_. That’s not smart. That’s just sad. ‘Cause when you find someone who values your . . . friendship, it’s worth it.”

Lexa swallows thickly. Does Clarke want to be that person for Lexa?

Without giving Lexa time to reply, Clarke scrambles to her feet, a bit wobbly, walks to the golf cart, and rummages around. The space she left is cold, but she soon comes back and sits down again with her legs crossed.

“Give me your arm,” she says.

Lexa instinctively pulls away. “What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

At the pleading expression on Clarke’s face, Lexa relents with a sigh. She sits up and holds out her arm. Clarke cups her arm in one palm, the touch sending a tingle through Lexa. Her breath hitches. This can’t be happening. She can’t _let_ this happen. They’re teammates and friends, but nothing more.

Clarke uncaps a green pen and starts to draw. “Green for your eyes,” she says.

The pen tickles Lexa’s skin. She contemplates drawing away again, but Clarke’s closeness warms her. From this distance, and with Clarke’s distraction, she can take in everything—the scent of her grapefruit shampoo, the even rhythm of her breathing, the brush of her tongue over her lips as she concentrates.

“How you are, Lexa,” Clarke says, “is okay. We all have flaws, and we all need to change and grow, but I’ll never say that there’s something wrong with you. Maybe you’re tough to get to know, but that just means the effort is that much more worthwhile.” Her smiles drops a smidge when she adds, “I’ve worked hard at golf, too, you know.”

“I know that,” Lexa says quickly. She’s _seen_ it. “And I mean it when I say you’re really good. You could’ve gone pro in the summer, skipped college altogether.”

“You could’ve, too. I’ve watched you on the amateur circuit for years now. Why didn’t you?”

They’ve played against each other in numerous tournaments, but they somehow managed to never get grouped together. Unlike Lexa, Clarke hasn’t made the jump from the amateur tour to the pro tour, even if she’s still considered an amateur and can’t take any of the pot. Maybe next summer they’ll be back to playing against one another.

“I need to be prepared,” Lexa says. “If something happens to cut my career short, I need to have something to fall back on.”

“Hm. For me, college was a compromise with my parents. I wouldn’t be a doctor like my mom wanted, but I’d still get a degree. But really, my only decision was that I’d get to play with you. There.” She releases Lexa’s arm and caps the pen. “Like it?”

Lexa’s mind is still back on the part where Clarke said something about wanting to play with her. Clarke has to nudge her arm to get her to look at what she’s done. And what she’s done is draw a tiny forest on Lexa’s forearm, pines that reach up and stretch to the stars, also pictured. More than stars, though. Clarke’s sketched a small galaxy. All in green, too. Amazing.

“Wow,” Lexa breathes. “I love it.”

Clarke smiles. “Good.”

“You’re quite talented. Isn’t there anything the amazing Clarke Griffin can’t do?”

“Let’s see . . . Parallel park, cook a decent meal that isn’t breakfast, finish thirteen with fewer than two putts. Need me to go on?”

“No,” Lexa says, laughing. Clarke’s right. They’re the same. They were both born for this career, and they’ll both fight for it. But what about each other? Could they both fight for that, too?

Clarke sighs. “I don’t want to be captain. You’re the best one I could have asked for. Whatever you thought at the beginning of the year, you know that now, right?”

Lexa nods.

Clarke traces a finger up Lexa’s arm. More softly, she says, “Lexa. I came for you.”

Lexa nearly stops breathing. She forces herself to look Clarke in the eye, blown pupils reflecting her own desires. Or is that just wishful thinking?

Clarke splays a hand over her cheek, thumb running along her cheekbone, and leans forward. Lexa’s eyes slip shut just before their lips meet. She was wrong. Clarke Griffin is all gentleness.

* * *

_Griffin’s Got Game_

_Daughter of Late Legend Jake Griffin Is Taking After Him and Killing It_

By Carl Emerson

Polis University’s women’s golf club has always been solid, but this year, they have a shining star in the form of Clarke Griffin, daughter of late PGA legend Jake Griffin. Not only a talented golfer in her own right, she draws attention with her lightning personality.

…

Griffin’s a natural-born leader. Observing their practice, it’s easy to see the other girls look up to her, even the Captain In Name, Lexa Woods. Griffin and Woods huddle together at the twelfth tee, laughing as the freshman advises the upperclassman on club choice.

“She’s learned a lot from me,” Griffin says of Woods.

…

Again of Woods, Griffin says, “She keeps to herself a lot.”

In fact, Miss Woods seems more like a lone wolf than a captain. She is quiet, reserved, with a crystal-clear focus that broadcasts her intention to make it to the LPGA. She’s got the talent for it, but her interactions with her teammates, or lack thereof, makes her choice to play at the collegiate level instead of joining the tour right away a curious one.

* * *

**Text**

**Lincoln Woods**

Hey. I know you’re upset about that

article, but you should take a look at

Clarke’s social media. She’s apologizing

all over the place to you.

She seems genuine, Lex. You should

talk to her when you get a chance.

And call me.

 

Lexa tosses her phone onto her bed without answering her brother’s texts. She’ll get back to him later. She can’t deal with anyone, not even someone she loves, right now. She could barely stomach reading the article. She definitely doesn’t want to talk about it.

She flops down onto her bed and turns on a documentary on Netflix just to distract herself. The whole team is busted up over this shitty article. Anya issued a statement through the university website, and she apologized to all the players in the locker room the very next day for “not protecting them,” but there’s still tension among the team, palpable and insidious. This isn’t something they can get over in time for the tournament against Mount Weather University in two days.

Or, at least, Lexa can’t get over it. She trusted Clarke. Was beginning to.

It was _dumb_. A few lousy weeks of eating lunch together and walking to classes and studying in the library didn’t mean a thing.

Her phone buzzes. Grimacing, she picks it up.

 

**Text**

**Clarke Griffin**

Lex, can we talk?

 

It’s the fifth of its kind today. Lexa shuts off the screen and buries her head in the pillow. The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that Lexa has no idea if any of it was genuine. Clarke might have been trying to keep her off balance. Even as she thinks it, she dismisses the theory. To what end? Clarke can become captain without being an asshat about it. So why even make an effort to become friends?

Lexa flips onto her back and sighs. No. No more thinking about this. She’ll change into pajamas, watch documentaries, eat an entire tub of ice cream. Then maybe she’ll be able to get some sleep tonight.

* * *

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

For the record, while all the girls on the @polis_u golf team are flattered by @AmericanSportMag feature, we were grossly misrepresented.

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Full quote: “I’ve learned a lot from her. She’s learned a lot from me. I’m lucky to be able to play with someone I admire so much.”

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Full quote: “She keeps to herself a lot. She’s v. focused & intense. I’ve got a temper, but she’s teaching me a ton about the mental game.”

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Unused quote: “@woodslexa took me under her wing. She’s become a mentor and a friend. And she’s the real deal. Watch out for her.”

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Unused quote: “The whole team has a fantastic rapport. Maybe we’ll be rivals in the future when we go pro, but right now, we’re sisters.”

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

I’m disheartened by this because it perpetuates the myth that girls can’t be friends, esp. in sports. I’d be nowhere without my girlfriends.

  **Octavia Blake** **@blakeyourheart**

@golfer_griffin Yeeeeaaaaah! Preach it, princess!

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

There’s no rivalry between me and @woodslexa. We’re teammates and friends who respect one another. Ask her, and she’ll say the same.

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Incomplete list of fav ladies: @woodslexa @uwontsurviveme @blakeyourheart @thisisharper @iammonr0 @generalanya @my_own_echo@emoriofpolis

 

**Raven Reyes @uwontsurviveme**

@golfer_griffin You’re a beautiful broom in a closet full of brooms, Griff, but maybe take out your anger at the driving range?

  **Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

@uwontsurviveme You’re right. I’m leaving.

 

**Clarke Griffin @golfer_griffin**

Okay, folks. Social media rant [/end] Going back to my game.

* * *

Lexa takes the seat farthest from Clarke, even though it doesn’t matter much with only a seven-person table. They’re all reeling from their poor Day 1 showing, so the mood is somber and the table is quiet. Clarke keeps trying to catch her eye, but Lexa stares at her water glass. Anya would normally be reaming them out by now, but she feels responsible for the article, and they eat in mostly silence.

After the entrees come, Anya says, “I’m proud of you guys, okay? I think you’re all able to analyze for yourselves what went wrong today, so I’m not going to press it. I want you to relax tonight because tomorrow’s a new day. We just need to keep fighting. All right, guys?”

The girls nod and murmur in agreement. The discussion that follows is subdued but productive.

“Now go on. Get out of here. Get some rest,” Anya says when it’s clear there’s no more to be said. As the players stand, she adds, “Lexa, wait a minute.”

Lexa sits back down and holds her hands together to keep herself from fidgeting. Clarke lingers, taking more time than she needs to gather her things, but she goes when Lexa refuses to look at her.

When Clarke has gone, Anya says, “What’s up? Where’s your head?”

Where, indeed? Lexa bites her lip and shakes her head. “I don’t . . . It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you will be, but you’re not right now. It’s about the article, isn’t it?”

Lexa sips her water. Yeah. In a way. But it’s mostly about Clarke. About what she thought they had. About how right she was to cut herself off from people after Costia’s death. She wasn’t made to trust, wasn’t made to love. The sooner she accepts that, the quicker she can move on. All she has and all she ever will have is golf.

“Lexa?” Anya prompts.

“I thought Clarke respected me as her teammate, at least.”

“She does, Lex. More than that.” Anya crosses her arms and sits back in her seat. “She came to see me as soon as she read it. Explained everything. You can’t blame her for what she said being taken out of context, and she’s proclaimed over every single social media outlet that she’s sorry. The whole world can see it. Now what’s holding you back from forgiving her?”

Lexa herself isn’t sure she knows. It’s reactionary, a knee-jerk against being taken for a fool. She’s taught herself to be guarded because guarded protects her, and then she’d let down her walls for Clarke anyway . . .

And what? Clarke hadn’t betrayed her at all, so why does Lexa find it so hard to make it right?

* * *

“Friends,” Lexa says firmly, sitting up against the hotel headboard and hugging a pillow.

Lincoln is sprawled out beside her, legs crossed, the picture of ease. Indra couldn’t get off work until the weekend, but Lincoln came to cheer Polis on, and Lexa is exceedingly glad for her brother’s presence. He’s big and gentle and exactly what she needs.

“Clarke and I can be friends,” she continues.

Lincoln chuckles. “After everything you told me? You think you’d be okay with settling for that?”

“I have to be. She destroys my focus.”

“No,” Lincoln says, shaking his head. “You said your game picked up when you were friends with her, after you stopped worrying about everything so much. It’s not her destroying your focus. It’s not being able to get outside of your own head.”

She buries her head in her pillow. “That’s always been my problem.”

“Yeah, too many books when you were a kid,” he teases. “What was Indra thinking?”

“Lincoln.”

“Hey, hey, hey. I was just teasing.”

She straightens. “I know, but Clarke called me aloof.” And standoffish. And prejudiced. And cold.

Lincoln doesn’t reply right away, and when she looks at him, he’s holding in a laugh.

“What?” she demands.

“You kind of are, Lex.”

She smacks him in the shoulder. “You’re awful.”

This is all so stupid. There are still three rounds left. She should be concentrating on her game. That’s what’s going to get her to the LPGA. That’s the goal she needs to keep in sight. Clarke would just be . . . a detour.

Lincoln sits up. He frowns at her before putting a hand on her knee. “Look, not everything ends, Lex. No one’s pushing you to get over Costia, but I don’t think . . .” He clears his throat, tries again. “I don’t think the pain you hold on to should stop you from believing in Clarke.”

Costia . . . What would she say if she could see Lexa now? That she’s being an ass? She chuckles to herself. Yeah, Costia would definitely say that.

“But what about my dream?” she asks.

“You’ll still get there,” Lincoln says. “It doesn’t have to be either/or. Making it to the LPGA and being with Clarke aren’t mutually exclusive. So . . . maybe stop acting like they are ‘cause all you’re doing is torturing yourself.”

She swallows down an instinctive rebuttal. He’s right. He’s so right. She’s just so damn scared of losing Clarke that she’s not even willing to start anything, and she’s using any excuse to do it. That’s no way to live.

She gives in to a smile. “It’s annoying how smart you are.”

He grins. “You love me, though.”

A knock sounds on the door.

“Expecting someone?” Lincoln asks.

Lexa shakes her head.

Lincoln answers the door. “Hi,” he says. “Clarke, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” comes Clarke’s husky voice.

Lexa’s heart flutters. She hadn’t expected to have to see Clarke until tomorrow morning. She still needs time to process.

“I’m Lincoln, Lexa’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you. Can I speak to her?”

Lincoln looks over his shoulder. Lexa nods. Why the hell not? They’ll need to talk eventually.

“Sure,” Lincoln says. “Come on in.”

He lets her through, and Clarke walks into the room. Lexa stands and immediately doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Pockets? Should they go in her pockets? Oh, back pockets weren’t the way to go. Now she looks like an awkward tween and it’s too late to change her mind.

“I’ll be in my room if you need anything, Lex,” says Lincoln.

“Sure. Thanks,” she says.

Clarke watches him go, and there are a few seconds of silence after he shuts the door before she says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Lexa says. She’s not good at this stuff, at saying what she feels. Still, she has to try. For the sake of the team, of course. “I got your voicemails. And your texts. And your Facebook messages. I’m sorry I didn’t reply right away. I was just trying to figure everything out.”

“Okay.”

Lexa takes a deep breath. Time for courage, for truth. “It was a stupid article, and he took everything out of context. I wouldn’t believe some asshole reporter over my teammate. Besides, someone once told me it’s sad not to trust anyone because there are people worthy of my friendship out there.”

A slow smile spreads over Clarke’s face. “Why, Lexa, first you change your mind about Ark kids and now you’re on my side? However will you surprise me next?”

Lexa matches the smile. “I’m learning.”

“You don’t think I was messing with your head so I could take your place as captain?”

“What? No, I—” Lexa starts, but then she catches the sparkle in Clarke’s eye. “You’re teasing.”

“I am.”

Teasing is a good start, right?

“So,” Lexa says, sticking her hand out, “friends?”

Clarke’s smile falters, but then she shakes Lexa’s hand. “Yeah, friends . . .”

Clarke doesn’t let go of her hand right away. Even though both their fingers are callused from so much practice, the touch is comfortable. Lexa can’t tear her eyes from Clarke’s. They’re so blue, open like the sky.

The ensuing silence is cut off by a knock on the hotel door. Lexa jumps and drops Clarke’s hand.

“Come in!” Clarke calls over her shoulder. Then she turns to Lexa and says, softer, an unreadable expression on her face, “I invited the girls over. Figured we’re all dealing with this so we might as well deal with it together. With our captain.”

“That was considerate of you,” Lexa manages just before Echo, Emori, Harper, and Monroe join them.

They clamber onto the bed, already chattering away, and suddenly Lexa’s being pulled to the bed and Clarke’s settling in a chair near the window.

A hotel room’s never seemed so big.

* * *

Lexa picks up her game enough to help Polis edge out Mount Weather. It’s Clarke who carries them, though. No one, not even Maya, Mount Weather’s captain, gets within ten strokes of her.

Afterward, Clarke gives a soundbite to a reporter from the _Polis University Pioneer_ , the only outlet the team’s agreed to talk to from now on.

“Lexa’s focus comes from her calm. She was rattled this week, understandably. My drive, though, comes from anger. That happened to serve me well this weekend. That’s all. Onto the next tournament. Well, fall break first, I guess.”

* * *

When fall break rolls around, Anya gives the team the long weekend off. A lot of them are going home or going on small trips anyway. Lexa stays, though. On Friday, she gets up as early as she normally does. Instead of going for a run, she heads to the university golf course. With everyone gone, it’ll be just her and the game, just the way she likes it.

Just as she’s getting set up on the first tee, a cart comes whirring toward her.

Lexa’s heart stutters. If she had known being friends would mean swallowing butterflies every time she sees Clarke smile . . . No, she still would’ve wanted to be friends.

Clarke rolls the cart to a stop, hops out, and grabs her clubs. “I see you get up at the ass-crack of dawn even on break.”

Lexa shrugs. “Hard habit to shake.”

“Mind if I join?”

“Not at all.”

After that, it’s easy. The butterflies linger, but they calm down until their presence is persistent but comfortable. She and Clarke don’t talk a whole lot, only to compliment each other on good shots or to ask for a second opinion on club choice. If only tournaments were like this, just the two of them, their natural competitiveness overshadowed by their effortless companionship.

It’s not until they get to the back nine and Clarke’s teeing up that Lexa says, “I’m really glad we’ve become friends.”

“Friends?” Clarke asks, turning to her with a raised eyebrow. “Is that all we are?”

Lexa, frowning, places a hand on her hip and leans on her driver. What does that mean? Is Clarke being her usual spirited self, or does she really want to go back to being just teammates?

“Oh, fuck this.” Clarke drops her club to the grass. She strides over to Lexa, takes her face in her hands, and kisses her.

The kiss is different than their first. Where that was all nervous exploration and gentle assurance, this is desperation and force, like they’re trying to get everything across that they haven’t been able to say in words. It’s teeth scraping against lips, hands tangled in hair, bodies pressed flushed. Clarke tastes like the strawberry-banana smoothie she drank for breakfast.

“No, Lexa,” Clarke breathes, “I don’t want to be friends. Not _just_ friends, anyway.”

Lexa, eyes still closed, feels dizzy. Her brain comes out of its stupor to roar into overdrive. She can imagine a future with Clarke, one where they’re both on the tour but they try not to play against each other in anything other than the big tournaments. She can imagine weekday mornings spent on the course, quiet evenings at home, weekends with their friends. She can imagine family holidays and nights curled in one another and endless happiness. She wants to say all of that. She wants to say so much.

What comes out of her mouth is, “I work hard at golf.”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“Oh, hell, Lexa.” Clarke turns away and walks off. At the edge of the fairway, she faces her again. “I know. It’s the only thing you love. But it’s never going to love you back. When will you get that?”

“No, Clarke,” Lexa says. “I . . . That didn’t come out right.”

Clarke regards her silently, hands on her hips.

“I work hard at golf because I want a future in the LPGA. I can work hard at this, too,” Lexa says. She pauses, but when Clarke doesn’t say anything, she adds, “If you’ll let me. If you want me to, I mean.”

“‘This’ as in . . .” Clarke waves a hand between them.

Lexa nods. Then there’s no more space separating them and they’re kissing again and Lexa feels like her heart might burst with happiness. She pulls away, brushes her nose against Clarke’s. “Clarke Griffin, will you go on a date with me?”

Clarke smiles against her lips. “I would love to, Lexa Woods.” She pulls away and walks backward toward the tee. “But first, we’ve got to finish this game. Loser buys lunch!”

* * *

Laughing, Lexa holds a palm out toward Clarke’s phone. “Clarke, stop. You’ve taken a thousand pictures of me already.”

“Yeah, but this is the first time I’ve been able to drag you to the art museum as my girlfriend,” Clarke says, “and that’s worthy of documenting.”

“You didn’t drag me. I wanted to come.”

“One more picture? It’ll be the last, I swear.”

And Clarke’s pleading face is so cute that Lexa can’t say no. They stand to the side of a Boucher painting called _The Love Letter_ , and Lexa curls an arm around Clarke’s waist. At the last moment, Clarke presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Awesome,” Clarke says, occupied with her phone.

“You’re not going to post that, are you?” Lexa asks.

Clarke hums and looks up innocently. “Too late.”

“You’re impossible.”

“But you love it.”

Lexa grins. She can’t refute that.

Clarke holds the phone out to her. She’s captioned it:

_My favorite masterpiece. Hint: It’s not the painting. #girlfriends #artmuseum #fallbreak #kindofalotinlove_

As they wind their way through the exhibits, Lexa’s phone buzzes repeatedly with the notification that Clarke mentioned her, with notifications of comments, with friend requests and follow notifications. It seems Clarke comes with a whole crew of friends, too. Lexa smiles and slips her hand into her girlfriend’s. She’s more than okay with that.

* * *

 **@uwontsurviveme** Get it, Griff!

 **@bellamyb** Told you so. Welcome to the crew, @woodslexa.

 **@wellsjaha01** I second that. About time!

 **@blakeyourheart** Will you two please stop posting cutesy pictures?

 **@golfer_griffin** It is DAY ONE, O. Let me have this.

 **@golfer_griffin** P.S. Dinner on Sunday night, all? @woodslexa and I would like to show off how cute we are IN PERSON.

 **@woodslexa** That’s @golfer_griffin’s plan, not mine. I would simply like to spend time with all of you and get to know you better. And thank you, @bellamyb and @wellsjaha01. :)

 **@uwontsurviveme** Aw, @woodslexa, you like us! Expect the whole crew on Sunday.

 **@blakeyourheart** Stop it. This is too adorable.


End file.
